


The Big 6-0

by reindeerjumper



Series: Daddy Darcy [16]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mark's getting old and he doesn't like it, Old Age, getting old, sorta angst?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:44:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9905933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper
Summary: Mark's 60th birthday is quickly approaching, and he's feeling rather self-conscious about it.





	

Bridget should have seen it coming. Mark had been insufferable over the weeks leading up to his birthday in a way that only Mark could be insufferable--instead of outwardly whining and moaning over the fact that he was rapidly closing in on turning sixty, he did it in a way that was utterly infuriating. Never did Mark express his frustration outwardly. Instead, Bridget had noticed him taking more time in the mornings, inspecting the increasing grey at his temples and gently running fingertips over the deepening crow’s feet bracketing his eyes (which were only made worse by the frown that seemed to be plastered on his mouth). He had even started playing squash again, which caused him to come home afterwards and ice his knees for what seemed like hours. 

As always, though, he refused to speak about it.

Will and Mabel had started to notice a shift in Mark’s demeanor, as well. Their ten-year-old son was the first to approach Bridget with his concerns.

“Mum, why is Dad wearing those sneakers?” he had asked her in a hushed tone, gently nodding his head in the direction of Mark’s feet. It had been a Saturday morning, and Mark had bound down the stairs wearing a t-shirt with “The Who” emblazoned across it, a pair of jeans that were clearly from the 90s and a pair of white Converse sneakers. The concern in their son’s eyes was almost comical as they watched Mark bustle around the kitchen to make his morning cup of coffee. 

“I really couldn’t tell you, Will. I don’t even know where he got that t-shirt,” Bridget had replied, running a hand through his curls as they both watched Mark with concern. 

Mabel was a bit more outspoken about the situation. She had been sitting at the kitchen table, her legs kicking against the leg of the chair as she munched on a piece of toast with marmalade. When Mark had entered the kitchen, Mabel hadn’t paid him much mind, but as the cabinets he was rummaging around in continued to slam behind him, her attention was drawn towards her father.

Bridget couldn’t help seeing herself mirrored in her daughter as Mabel let out a snort of laughter and said, “Daddy, what in the world are you wearing?”

Mark had turned around with some hesitation to face their daughter. “What do you mean, darling?” he asked, the canister of coffee in his hand as his other hand fell limply to his side.

“You just look...weird.”  _ Yep, just like her mother. _ “You’re wearing that ratty old t-shirt and those sneakers. Doesn’t Will have a pair of sneakers like that, Mum?” she continued, now turning her face towards Bridget.

Bridget had let out a quick cough and said, “Now, Mabel, no need to be rude. Eat your breakfast and then go clean up.” She had then looked towards Mark, who was completely crestfallen at his daughter’s honesty. Bridget crossed the kitchen and wound her arms around his waist as she looked up into his face with honest dolefulness. Mark was trying incredibly hard to avoid her gaze, which caused her to squeeze his waist tighter. 

“Mark,” she started gently. He looked down at her. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Mark,” she said in a warning tone. “Clearly something is going on. What’s with the outfit?”

Mark looked down at himself then back at his wife. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said with indifference. Bridget knew him too well, though, to not notice the slow creep of an embarrassed flush making its way up his neck. 

“You never wear sneakers unless you’re going to the gym. And The Who? Since when do you like The Who?” She now plucked at the seam of his jeans with her finger and thumb before saying, “These jeans are older than Will.”

Mark let out an exasperated huff before muttering, “I’m just feeling...a little self conscious.” 

“Whatever for?”

“Oh Bridget, come on. I’m turning sixty this Friday. That’s  _ old.  _ I’m bloody old.”

Bridget couldn’t stop the smile from curling onto her lips at Mark’s admission. “You’re not old, Mark. If anything, this ridiculous get up makes you look old.” 

Mark looked down at himself once again then back at Bridget. 

“That bad?”

“That bad,” Bridget confirmed. “Listen, age is just a number. Don’t you know that your age doesn’t matter to me? All that matters is that you’re around.” 

She could see Mark gazing over her shoulder at their children, his face softening at the sight of them. 

“I just want to be around for everything...with them, you know?” he said wistfully, turning his gaze back to Bridget. 

“You will, Mark. Stop being so macabre about it. You’re turning sixty, not one hundred sixty. There are plenty of sixty-year-olds who you’d never even notice are that old. Brad Pitt...George Clooney...Colin Firth. You’re far more attractive than that lot. It’s all up here,” she said, tapping her pointer finger against Mark’s temple.

“Of course you'd mention  _ him,”  _ Mark said with chagrin. 

“As perfect of a specimen that Colin Firth is, you are my favorite geriatric by far. A pair of Converse sneakers and a pair of jeans from the dawn of time aren’t going to make you any younger, Mark. Just succumb to it and enjoy the ride.” 

Mark glowered at her, but not without some affection mixed in. 

“Listen. I know you don't want a big party or any kind of celebration, but at least let me treat you to dinner. We can go out, get a bit pissed, come home and...y’know. Have a little fun. I'll call Shaz right now to babysit if you want to.” Bridget looked up at him as her palms pressed against the fabric of his t-shirt.

Mark hesitated, gazing back over at Will and Mabel, then turned his attention back down towards Bridget. “Fine,” he conceded, placing his hands on her slim hips. “We can do dinner.” 

“Ohhh, goody,” Bridget said gleefully, and clapped her hands together.

 

* * *

 

 

Mark should have seen it coming. He knew, whenever Bridget got like this, that there was only one thing that she wanted to do. They had stumbled back into their home after a long, lovely dinner downtown, just the two of them. Mark had opted out of the band t-shirt and Converse sneakers for a much more “Mark” button-down and dark jeans. Bridget had worn a soft, flowy dress in the blue that she knew Mark loved, and it was clear that she had made the right choice because despite Mark’s cloudy disposition over the underlying issue, he still couldn’t keep his eyes off of her all night.

They had their fair share of wine and (eventually) mixed drinks before pouring themselves into a cab to head back to their home in Ealing. Mark had lead a giggling Bridget in through the front door, his hand gently placed against her lower back. He had missed his shot at placing a gentle line of kisses against her neck, because the second they crossed the threshold, Bridget had beelined for the living room. With a huff, Mark had followed her in, only to find her completely bent over the sound system against the wall. Her arse was stuck out in the air, swaying ever so slightly as he listened to her murmur to herself. Honestly, he couldn’t help the smile on his face. He knew this was going to happen.

With a sigh of resignation, Mark made his way into the kitchen to make them a nightcap. As he mixed their drinks together, he suddenly heard the intro to “Like A Virgin” echo into the kitchen, and he shook his head. “Of course,” he muttered to himself, picking up the two glasses to bring them into the living room. It was no secret to him that Bridget loved to dance, especially when drunk. She had admitted to him more than once getting shitfaced on vodka and dancing around her old flat to Chaka Khan. Just because she now was a married mum of two didn’t mean that the age old tradition fell to the wayside.

Bridget was now dancing her way around the living room, the hem of her dress flouncing out around her or being seductively pulled up to mid-thigh as she belted out the lyrics. Mark placed the two glasses on the end table, making sure to place a coaster under each, before flopping back down onto the couch to watch the show. He ran a hand through his hair as he smirked at her from the couch, and Bridget started to approach him as she grabbed the hem of her dress and swished it around her thighs. She stopped in front of him and leaned forward at the waist, placing both hands on Mark’s knees. 

“Why do you still look all mopey?”

Mark cocked an eyebrow at her, his head still cradled in the hand that was leaning on the armrest of the couch. “What do you mean?”

Bridget shimmied her hips, a sheet of blonde hair falling into her eye. “Your brow is still all furrowed and you don’t look as... _ happy _ as you normally do.” 

Mark sat up and reached his hand out to brush Bridget’s hair out of her face. “I’m very happy, my love.”

“You’re still thinking about being old, aren’t you?”

Despite Mark’s protests, apparently the truth was clearly written across his face. Even though the evening had been wonderful with just he and Bridget, he still couldn’t help the niggling at the back of his brain about his imminent birthday.

Before he could start in on his insecurities, Bridget had launched herself into his lap with brute force, almost knocking the wind out of him.

“For fuck’s sake, Bridget,” he huffed, lacing his arms around her waist as she straddled his thighs and settled onto his lap.

“This stops now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, locking eyes with her.   
  
Bridget leaned over and grabbed her drink from off of the end table, taking a nimble sip before grabbing her cell phone that had sat beside it. 

“I’m going to show you.”

Mark watched Bridget squint as she unlocked her phone, the tip of her tongue sticking out just between her lips. 

“Can I borrow these?” she asked as she reached for his glasses. She didn’t even wait for his response as she gently pulled them off of his face and settled them onto the bridge of her nose. “Ah, much better,” she sighed, whizzing through her phone with much more accurate speed now that she could properly see. Mark smiled as she continued to swipe and click, just the small, pink tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth. “Ah-ha!” she exclaimed, finally finding what she was looking for. “ _ This _ is what I want to show you.”  
  
Bridget shoved her phone under Mark’s nose, and with an exasperated sigh, Mark retrieved his glasses from the bridge of her nose to return them to his own. On the screen of her phone was a photo of a photo, of Mark when he and Bridget had first gotten together. It had been taken some time right after he had come back from America, snapped on an old disposable camera. He recognized it because Bridget had kept it up on her refrigerator for years. There was nothing especially important about the photo--it was just a snippet of their time together. He looked younger, a bit more carefree as he looked into the lens of the camera, with Bridget hanging off of his neck as she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Why are you showing me this?” he murmured, taking the phone from her hands.

“This was one of our first photos together, and I was utterly and completely smitten with you. I thought you were the dreamiest man I had ever seen, and I kept this photo for as long as I have because it still brought me back to those giddy feelings of first love.”

“Why is it on your phone?”

“The kids like to look at them, sometimes. I have a whole album,” Bridget responded, taking the phone back from Mark. She swiped a few more times, then turned it back to him.

Once again, Mark took the phone gently from her hands to inspect the photo that was now on the screen. This one was some years after the first, at Shaz’s wedding. Bridget was clad in a rather atrocious peach bridesmaid dress, a huge, open-mouthed grin taking up half of her face, while Mark held her from behind, his own face mirroring hers. They looked so carefree and happy, albeit a little bit older.

“One of my own personal favorites, despite that monstrosity Shazzer made me wear. Look at how happy we were...and I’m pretty sure we had a terrible row just the night before. I think that’s why I like this one so much. I barely remember what we fought about, but that crinkly-eyed smile of yours is burned into my brain.”

Mark let out a small hum of agreement, unable to keep the very small smile off of his face. He handed the phone back to Bridget and she swiped a few more times. She smirked as she handed it back to him.

On the screen this time was Mark with Will when he was just a few days old. He remembered taking the photo--he had been staying at Bridget’s flat as they both adjusted to becoming new parents. This one wasn’t a photo of a photo, but rather just a regular snap on Bridget’s Camera Roll. Mark had been wearing an old t-shirt, his hair a fluffy mess of unkempt curls and the bags under his eyes already prominent. Against his chest lay their firstborn, slumbering peacefully as Mark looked down at him with utter and complete adoration. 

“I remember taking this,” he said softly, looking up from the phone to look at Bridget.

“So do I. I was so knackered and just wanted a nap, and you stepped in to take care of him while I slept. But then you looked so utterly  _ amazing _ , Mark. Even more amazing than the first photo I showed you. I didn’t care that you were going grey and that you had a few more wrinkles. What I cared about was the fact that you were with us and that you were already an amazing father.” She took the phone from him, swiped a few more times, then turned it back to him again. “I feel the same way about this photo, too.”

As Bridget handed him the phone, he recognized the photo immediately. It was another photo from Bridget’s iPhone, but this time it was in the hospital, right after Bridget had given birth to Mabel. He had left Inns of Court almost immediately to make a straight shot to the hospital where Bridget was being taken by Pam Jones. They had met at the front doors, Bridget panting heavily in a wheelchair, Pam clutching Will’s little hand, and Mark looking completely frazzled and concerned. The picture in his hand was just moments after their daughter was born. She was swaddled in a blanket, a little pink cap on her head, and looking incredibly tiny in the breadth of Mark’s hands. He was leaning forward, nose-to-nose with their daughter, his brown eyes intently locked on Mabel’s cherubic face.

“See? You couldn’t be more handsome or attractive to me than in these moments, Mark. I was gobsmacked the first time you told me you liked me, but nothing could beat the feeling of seeing you with our daughter for the first time. I didn’t care that you loved her more than me--I could see it in your eyes then, and I still can today, but that’s how it  _ should _ be. I fall in love with you a little more each time I see you with our kids. Actually, this is probably the best example…” Bridget trailed off as she grabbed the phone again, flipping just a few more times through the photos in her phone before handing it back to Mark.

This one was the most recent, perhaps only a few weeks old, and it showed Mark laying on the floor of the living room with Will in the crook of his shoulder, laughing hysterically, and Mabel laying across his chest, grinning up at the camera with unabashed goofiness. Mark, sandwiched between them, was laughing with abandon, his entire face lit up in a megawatt smile that made all of the creases he had been worrying over look even deeper. The greying hair that had been plaguing him for days now was mussed and crazy from the pillow that Mabel had smacked him with in the face just moments before, but what struck Mark about the photo was how he had felt in that moment it was snapped. 

None of the creaky, old feelings that he had allowed to sneak up on him in the past days were present in the photo. He remembered engaging the pillow fight himself, swinging one of the throw pillows from the couch across his torso to catch Will in the face with it. They had been watching a movie-- _ Zootopia _ , maybe?--and he had been overcome with the overwhelming urge to rile Will and Mabel up. Once the initial contact had been made, it was all over. Soon both children had been climbing all over him, pillows being flung across the room and making contact with any body part they could find as their laughter turned into roars. Bridget had come in right at the end, drawn by the noise, and snapped the photo as they caught their breath on the floor.

“Age is just a number, Mark,” Bridget murmured, once again taking the phone from his hands. “You’re only as old as you feel. We don’t care if you’re 60 or 100. We just want you to keep having fun and to stop moping. You’ll always be the dreamiest man I’ve ever met, grey hair or not.”

Mark pulled his glasses off of his face and leaned forward to place both palms against Bridget’s cheeks. He kissed her on the lips, feeling the warmth of her breath against his skin as he allowed a shiver of happiness to wind its way down his spine.

“You’re amazing, do you know that?” he whispered as the kiss broke apart. 

“I’ve heard that from a few people,” Bridget said coyly. “Now, get up,” she continued, pushing herself up off of his lap and standing in front of him. She held out a hand, which he took as he stood up. “We’re going to dance these blues away, and then you’re going to properly shag me until Shaz brings the kids home tomorrow morning.”

Mark let out a bark of laughter as he watched Bridget retreat back over to the sound system. After a few seconds, The Temptations filled the living room and Bridget made her way back to Mark.

“May I have this dance?” she asked, putting her hand out with the palm facing upwards.

“You may,” Mark replied, sliding his hand into hers and then pulling her into an embrace. His arm slid around her waist as he cradled her offered hand in his. As they cha-cha’ed across the floor, Mark nuzzled his nose into her hair and said, “Thank you.”

Bridget pulled back to look up at him and smiled. “It was my pleasure, you daft old man.” She winked at him and kissed him before he could protest.

 

_ As pretty as you are, _

_ You know you could've been a flower. _

_ If good looks were minutes, _

_ You know you could have been an hour. _

_ The way you stole my heart, _

_ You know you could have been a crook. _

_ And baby you’re so smart, _

_ You know you could have been a school book. _

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by my own aunt & uncle who are in their sixties. They recently admitted that when they get a bit drunk, they come home and have a dance party with each other, which I thought was the cutest freaking thing ever. Of course, I had to incorporate it somehow. 
> 
> I've also had a few requests for Mark's "Big Birthday", but I wanted to do something a little less fluffy and just a little more "real"--I'm sure Mark turning 60 is something he wouldn't take lightly, and let's be honest, a party just doesn't seem like something he'd enjoy. This seemed much more his speed :)
> 
> Also, the 60-year-old actors I mentioned are actors who currently in their 50s--I figured I'd project this as 10 years into the future, which also afford me the Firth mention ;)


End file.
